Outskirts of Jakarta, Indonesia – November 6, 0410 Hours
Yusman checked the illuminated dial of his wristwatch. 0410 hours. Early. As planned. The humid Indonesian air, thick with the aroma of distant refineries, hung heavy around his parked sedan. Two hundred meters from the perimeter gate of the Segarajaya complex, the vehicle provided an adequate vantage point. The order had been issued. The operation, a meticulous construct which involved months of planning, was about to commence.
Within minutes, the first tanker, a hulking white-and-green leviathan bearing the company’s distinctive livery, eased through the gate. Six more followed in precise, unhurried succession, forming a convoy that snaked through the pre-dawn silence of the deserted access roads. Their assigned vector was eastward, away from the Jakarta urban sprawl, a programmed deviation from their routine fortnightly 600-kilometer run to Surabaya. That journey, constrained by the nation’s stringent heavy-vehicle speed regulations, typically consumed eight hours. Yusman calculated his window: it would be noon before the inevitable alarm would be triggered by the convoy’s failure to report to their assigned destination. He knew with absolute certainty that the attack he was about to unleash would require less than half that time.
Fifteen minutes into their eastward trajectory, the seven vehicles, each laden with 34,000 litres of light petroleum, executed a sharp, synchronized turn south, converging on a disused warehouse on Jakarta's periphery. The massive steel doors, once a barrier against the elements, now swung shut, then locked with a definitive clank, sealing the last tanker inside. Yusman and his advance team were already there, waiting, a tableau of quiet anticipation as the drivers positioned their colossal charges.
The work began without preamble. The vapour vent covers, precisely engineered access points atop each tanker, were detached. Using lengths of reinforced PVC piping, the teams commenced the slow, careful process of introduction: over 200 kilograms of assorted heavy nails, screws, industrial nuts, and steel ball bearings. Each piece had been pre-coated in heavy oil, a deliberate measure to negate any friction-induced spark. These materials, settling inertly at the base of the eight-meter tanks, were to become the lethal shrapnel, enhancing the anti-personnel lethality of the soon-to-be mobile ordnance.
Next, the engine compartments received attention. A compact canister, its contents primarily potassium chlorate mixed with other select accelerants, was precisely positioned. A small pull-action primer was inserted, its function the initiation of the chemical reaction. This assembly was then encased in insulating foam, a critical safeguard against premature detonation from engine’s heat. The device was affixed to the engine block and a slender wire connecting to the primer was threaded into the driver’s cabin. A simple tug on this wire would ignite the chemicals, producing a consistent, tell-tale stream of black, acrid smoke.
The final stage involved the primary destructive mechanism. A one-kilogram block of RDX, military-grade, stable, and highly brisant, was secured to the underside hull of each tanker. Its configuration was a deliberate, inverted ‘V’ shape, backed by a thick metal underplate. This design was not arbitrary; it was engineered to direct the explosive force upwards, into the tanker’s body, ensuring catastrophic rupture and immediate ignition of its flammable contents. The microwave triggers, more complex in their construction, had been assembled and subjected to rigorous testing days earlier. Now, the final, crucial step: inserting the electric detonator into each RDX block.
The precision of the rigging teams was evident. By 0650 hours, all seven tankers were primed, their latent destructive potential contained, but ready. Two explosive specialists, supervising each station, conducted a final, comprehensive inspection, their eyes scanning for any deviation from the operational blueprint.
Yusman, meanwhile, gathered his drivers and their designated attendants. Each man wore the standard issue dark blue company jacket over a civilian shirt, a blue baseball cap pulled low, obscuring individual features. Yusman reiterated the plan, a sequence rehearsed countless times. A large-scale city map was spread before them. He pointed to their designated primary targets, then traced the pre-determined alternate routes, contingencies for unexpected congestion. Each team possessed a secondary objective; should the primary objective become untenable due to unforeseen obstacles, the alternate kill zone was to be engaged without hesitation. Timing, he stressed, was paramount. The distances to be covered were not great, but each tanker had to be in position at precisely 0830 hours.
Traffic on Jakarta's arterial roads was already heavy, the precursor to the morning rush. The men waited, their movements disciplined. The staggered departure times, calibrated to ensure simultaneous impact despite varying distances, had been honed over two days of intense dry runs. This operation, crucially, was designed for a safe egress. The teams were expected to return, unharmed, provided every variable aligned.
As his briefing concluded, Yusman distributed the final component: a grenade to each attendant. These, along with the RDX, had been illicitly procured two months prior from a military barracks in Banda Aceh. He delivered the warning with dispassionate clarity: these were instruments of last resort, to be deployed only if the primary explosives failed to ignite. He demonstrated the optimal placement, beneath the tanker’s most vulnerable point. He did not need to articulate the grim reality that, given the grenade’s four-second fuse, deployment guaranteed no escape. Survival would be a statistical anomaly.
With final prayers murmured, the teams boarded their respective vehicles, awaiting the release order. Most were consumed by the enormity of the coming carnage. A handful of seasoned operatives, however, displayed the chilling calm of men resigned to the inevitable.
At 0802 hours, Tanker One, its diesel engine rumbling, began its ponderous roll from the warehouse. Over the next nine minutes, the remaining six followed, each embarking on its one-way journey into the annals of urban terror. Yusman observed their departure, a complex cocktail of exhilaration, apprehension, and a faint, almost unacknowledged, sense of finality. This was his largest, most intricate operation. And his last. Its success hinged entirely on the rigid adherence to pre-ordained instruction.
He checked his watch again. Time for him to move to his safe house, a six-minute drive away. From the tenth-storey balcony, he would bear witness to his masterpiece, live.
Tanker One’s designated target was Blok M, a commercial nerve center in Kebayoran Baru, South Jakarta. A few decades old already, it was a perpetual vortex of local and foreign commerce. The narrow, one-way arteries of the district were, predictably, already choked with traffic.
The driver, a man of precise movements, expertly navigated the cumbersome 10-wheeled vehicle through the chaotic press of cars and motorcycles. His attendant, eyes fixed on his watch, confirmed the timeline. At 0827 hours, precisely, as the tanker passed the main frontage of Blok M, the driver executed a brutal, deliberate manoeuvre. A sharp, violent swerve from the left lane to the right, narrowly missing an elderly motorcyclist, then a grinding ascent of the curb, culminating in impact with a small tree. The tanker, now lodged at an acute angle, effected an immediate, decisive blockage of the entire thoroughfare. As the front wheels mounted the curb, the attendant simultaneously triggered the smoke canister in the engine bay. A thin, continuous plume of black smoke began to trail from beneath the hood.
The immediate crowd reaction was predictable: morbid curiosity. The blaring horns of trapped motorists provided an auditory backdrop to the rapidly congealing traffic. Both men exited the seemingly disabled vehicle. The attendant, with a theatrical flourish, produced his handphone, miming a call for assistance. As they melted into the burgeoning throng, they discarded their distinctive blue jackets and caps, a calculated act of dissolution into the anonymous background.
Sixty seconds. No more. Both men vanished. The attendant, having pre-keyed the activation number, waited. Two hundred meters distant, shielded by a concrete wall, he crouched. A final glance at his watch. The green call button depressed.
The time: 0830 hours. Precisely.
The resulting explosions were a single, indiscernible event. The first, a fraction of a second ahead of the second. The RDX tore through the tanker's hull with surgical ferocity, instantly igniting the 34,000 litres of petroleum. This was less than a third of the fuel load carried by American Airlines Flight 11 on 9/11. The effect, however, was no less chilling.
A fireball, fuelled by the ignited petroleum, erupted, spearing over 300 meters into the morning sky. The concussive pressure wave shattered windows half a kilometre distant. For a brief, terrible moment, the ascending column of thick black smoke shielded the ground-level devastation. Vehicles adjacent to the tanker had also undergone sympathetic detonation, their charred remains consuming their occupants, still strapped to their seats.
Beyond the immediate, incinerating kill zone, scores of individuals lay dead, a grotesque tableau of dismembered remains, burnt beyond recognition. Those on the periphery of Tanker One's blast radius were struck by shrapnel, propelled with still-lethal force from the exploding vehicle. The effects on office workers, tourists, and the ordinary citizenry engaged in their daily routines were akin to an unspeakable hail of steel. Some were decapitated instantly, their nerveless bodies taking a final, stumbling step before crumpling to the ground – never to move again. Others were evisceratingly torn apart, the shrapnel exiting their bodies with kinetic energy still sufficient to inflict further injury.
Large, lethal shards of glass, falling from the surrounding structures, claimed additional, innocent lives. The flaming petroleum, flowing across roads and down drains, ignited a rolling conflagration of building fires, a destructive chain reaction that would burn well into the evening. The combined effect of the intense fires and the grid-locked thoroughfares rendered emergency services impotent. Ambulances, their sirens wailing, found no clear path. For those still conscious, still clinging to life, help would not arrive in time.
Tanker Four’s mission was symbolic: the American Embassy. A fortified structure, its facade set back from the main boulevard, designed for defence. As the vehicle neared the compound, the driver, bracing, floored the accelerator. The tanker surged forward, a lumbering projectile, impacting the rear of a van in its path. On contact, the attendant triggered the smoke device, sending a cloud of black smoke billowing from the engine compartment.
The 'accident,' occurring 70 meters from the embassy’s main guard post, immediately triggered a security response. Two armed guards sprinted towards the scene. The attack team dismounted. Embassy security personnel, weapons drawn, ensured no casualties before escorting the driver and attendant towards the guard post.
A small queue, perhaps twenty individuals, waited at an adjacent gate, seeking entry for visa applications. More security personnel were arriving. The attendant, his fingers already on the pre-programmed activation sequence, depressed the green call button on his handphone.
The time: 0830 hours. Precisely.
The subsequent explosion mirrored those unfolding across Jakarta. This particular detonation launched several passing vehicles into the air, their descent ending in a mass of flaming wreckage on the already burning street. Both team members, still within the kill zone, understood there was no escape. A silent, perfunctory prayer was all that time allowed before a merciless rain of shrapnel shredded their bodies with brutal efficiency. Five security guards and the majority of the visa queue were struck down, many fatally. The embassy itself, a testament to its hardened construction, sustained minimal damage beyond shattered windows from the pressure wave. Four employees were injured by flying glass; all would survive to recount the horrors of November 6. JI’s planning had acknowledged the limited structural damage to be suffered. The message, however, would be delivered: clear, unequivocal that Americans remained squarely within the crosshairs.
But it was Tanker Seven that delivered the purest, most horrifying expression of unadulterated terrorism to the Americans and the watching world. The vehicle pulled to the side of the street, just before a road hump, approximately 200 meters from the entrance to the Indonesia American School. The distance was calculated: far enough to avoid immediate suspicion from school guards, yet close enough for optimal targeting of its approaching quarry. Classes were scheduled for 0845 hours. The buses, loaded with first and second-grade students, were due to arrive at any moment.
The tanker driver performed a pantomime of mechanical distress, raising the engine hood, fiddling with cables. He checked his watch: 0826 hours. Hazard lights flashing, hood raised, he and his partner began their walk away. The attendant had already entered the activation number into his handphone. All that remained was the wait.
Three minutes later, the two yellow school buses, rolling just three meters apart, turned the corner, slowing as they approached the road hump. They were on schedule. They neared the tanker.
From his observation point 300 meters distant, the attendant waited until both buses were perfectly aligned with the parked tanker. From his left, he heard the concussive thud of the first detonation, kilometres away. The attack had commenced. He keyed the call button on his handphone.
The white flash and the deafening concussion caught the man off-balance. Several seconds elapsed before equilibrium returned. Instinctively, he checked his watch – 12 seconds past 0830 hours. His task was complete.
The blast, a raw, elemental force, ripped through both buses. They were lifted, tossed sideways, spinning like children’s tops across the asphalt by the sheer pressure wave. Burning oil immediately engulfed the wreckage, silencing any final screams from the children trapped inside. There would be no survivors.
A press photographer, positioned by sheer happenstance nearby, would capture an image that would brand itself onto the global consciousness for years to come. Amidst the roiling smoke and burning embers, a small, blackened hand – flesh charred to the bone – reached from a window of one of the overturned buses. A silent, innocent plea – a cry the world failed to hear.
